A captivating fable about strange happenings The blurb introduces a strange phenomenon: on a seemingly normal morning in London, a group of people wake to find something important to them missing, something dear but peculiar. Six characters are introduced, all have a connection: Mrs Featherby has lost the front of her house, Cassie has lost Floss at Heathrow, Delia has lost her sense of direction, Robert has lost his workplace, Marcus has lost his piano keys, and Jake collects lost things, but is he losing his father? The story weaves its way amongst these characters; at all times bizarre scenarios arise. The seemingly acceptance by others is surreal. For example, Cassie finds her feet rooted to the floor of the arrivals lounge, her body being covered by bark and grass growing around her, but no-one seems to regard it as unusual. Mrs Featherby, a lonely soul, finds that no house front is an opportunity to befriend small girl Bonny, daughter of Robert. But is that what she wants? Robert’s wife, Mara, is happy that he can’t find his work-place – the building has vanished – now they can leave London behind. Is that what Robert wants? Marcus replaces his piano keys, but they are not the same. What can he do? Delia loses her way and gets help from Anthony, Jake’s father. She helps Jake find him again. Does it have a happy ending? Janina Matthewson has created a very different book, with a format that would appeal to many. It’s easy to read: short chapters, short scenes. Unlike many books I read, this is a story to be savoured and re-visited to get the most from it. Recommended.

I spent Christmas in Bali. Nicole was back in Biarritz for the holidays. Her family kept Basque traditions and there would be feasts and endless family visits. The last time I went there, I spent several hours scowling at her father and two brothers over a kitchen table as they scowled at me. I declined her veiled offer of an invite in a brief phone conversation. She informed me that she was taking a professional sabbatical in the New Year and joining a team of Médecins Sans Frontières for a mission to the Central African Republic. I was not happy about that. We argued briefly and the call ended as it typically does, with her telling me to have sex with myself. I declined after some thought. Donna refused my offer of airfare to Bali. Her job as a PA to a director of a specialist City accounting firm demanded her presence at several holiday functions. I celebrated my celibacy by going to a bar. I looked for ‘I am a Rock’ by Simon and Garfunkel on the juke box, but it wasn’t there. I returned to London two days into the New Year. England was cold. Donna was not. “It’s time you met some of my family,” I said to the ceiling of her bedroom when I had gathered enough oxygen to speak. I could feel her turn and face me, and she put her chin on my shoulder. I continued to look at the ceiling. “I thought you were an orphan, no living relatives. What are you talking about?” “Some guys I was in the military with, we’re sort of close. They run a private security company and I help them out with contracts sometimes. They’re having a meeting in London and I thought we’d hit the town one evening. You know London. I want you to think of a place we can all go for a good meal and some conversation.” “Great, tell me about them.” I did, almost. Just the stuff she could and would see on the Black Horse Group website when she looked it up. She listened intently, asking several good questions, then she said, looking at the ceiling. “First place I can think of is Pentonville Prison. Broadmoor might be good, but they book up early so I will have to check…Foreign Legion, Royal Marine Commandos, and Italian Special Forces? For a night out?” She was buzzing, but I was yet to see where she was going with her little rant. “We could kill and eat our own food at the Battersea Dogs Home, and then we could go along to Tower Hamlets and shoot drug dealers for a bit of entertainment.” She punched me on the arm. It hurt. “When were you going to tell me any of this? What you mean, you ‘help them out with contracts sometimes’?” I got out of bed and walked to her kitchen. “So that’s a ‘No’, then?” She followed me into the kitchen and put her arms around me. “So your friends are psycho-mercenaries, I’m cool with it.” She took a deep breath. “A night on the town with the A Team. Yeah, sounds like fun. Why not? Leave it to me.” I did. Dinner was arranged and wives and girlfriends were encouraged to attend in order to keep the shooting to a minimum. Donna had used her corporate connections and secured the private bar and dining room in the basement of Hawksmoor at Spitafield for the last Thursday in January. We took a train from her place in Richmond and stepped out of the tube station at Shoreditch. Donna had on her Power PA kit and looked perfectly professional. As we left the tube station I waved off a Lithuanian trying to sell me Cockney Heather, and bought a Big Issue off a weedy guy who looked hungry. Two security guys at the top of the stairs stopped us and one of them waved a small metal detector around. It beeped reassuringly as he moved it across the small of my back. “Sorry sir, you’ll have to check your weapon at the door.” “I did, it works just fine,” I said as I stepped aside for Donna. The larger of the two security guys smiled and nodded towards the staircase, and we descended. One of the quirks of working with professionally paranoid military types is that they perform their due-diligence. As we entered the bar, Rico came up to Donna and smiled his 100 watt smile. “Hello, Donna. It is lovely to meet you, finally. Jefferson has told me only lies about you.” “Rico,” she smiled. “All the way from Milan, I’m so glad you could join us tonight on such short notice.” They kissed, European style, and I said. “Hey, do you know where that mouth has been?” They both looked at me with the same amused disdain. Donna waltzed through the room without an introduction. Her job as a PA gave her the skills to win them all over, and record their words and their mannerisms to determine how to deal with them. I was enthralled to watch her version of flanking and supported assaults. In a quiet corner, I saw Dave and Steve chatting over an untouched bottle of Ardbeg single malt. Neither of them was bleeding, which was a good sign. Dinner was perfect and a genuine mood of good will prevailed. I hoped the meeting in the morning would retain some of the same promise. Drinks followed at the private bar and I caught up with Donna. She was glowing, and as happy as I had seen her. “Your friends are the scariest, most polite and gracious people I have ever met. They seem to think a lot of you. Henson doesn’t say much but Rico is amazing. What exactly do they do?” “Mostly they take a lot of shit from foreign dignitaries and try to keep them alive,” I said. “Dave Foure’s girlfriend, Kathy seems slightly distracted. I can’t place her accent, and she was a bit vague when I asked her about herself,” she said. “Great tits, though,” I said, as I ordered another whisky. She rolled her eyes and walked away. At midnight we all began to file out. We huddled in the cold outside chatting while waiting for cars. Several lit cigarettes, including Donna. The air was refreshingly cold and tended to waken up my senses. As a black SUV approached for Dave’s people, a door slid open on the side of a van parked on the opposite side of the street. I dived across to cover Donna but they had already opened fire before I could reach her. As I tackled her, I felt the shock as bullets hit her torso. We crashed to the pavement, and I rolled us between two parked cars. The sounds around me of bullets hitting parked cars, the building wall, and people were ringing in my ears. I had my Glock out and began to search for targets. Donna was silent between the parked cars, maybe dead. Around me several people were hit and in various states of rage or shock. Henson was face down and not moving as was one of the security guys. Steve had been hit, but had his pistol in hand and was seeking targets. Dave began to return fire, steady, fast, aimed shots. Steve followed suit as Dave changed magazines. I had seen that rhythm before. Immediately the automatic fire lessened from our ambushers. They were not pro’s. I couldn’t see Rico, and I moved to my left to see if I could get on their flanks while Dave and Steve returned fire from the kill zone. Without even hand signals, everyone was reacting to the situation as trained. I saw a shape move ahead of me, and realized it was Rico, also looking to flank them. As Rico moved forward across the street, I saw a shape move from the cab of the van in his direction. I shot the shape and it bounced off the building wall before falling to the footpath. Rico didn’t slow down. I was now three steps behind him when we reached the van. He shot the remaining two gunmen before I could get into position. There were no other targets standing. Three bad guys dead, maybe another ran away. Around us the echoes of gunfire ebbed away and were replaced by the sounds of approaching sirens and screams from our group. Steve and Dave were performing first aid and Rico was sorting out the extractions of those still standing. After engaging my safety, I threw my Glock into a sports bag in Rico’s SUV before the driver moved off. Donna was still alive, but she had that pale blue look of someone dying. Steve had stopped the bleeding with a torn shirt sleeve and was applying pressure to the wound. The police and ambulances arrived in a few seconds of an eternity. Donna, Henson and Henson’s wife were loaded into the first ambulance. The security guy who had waved the metal detector over me would not be needing an ambulance and neither would the three ambushers. Rico reported to Dave. “One dead security guy, Henson and Donna look bad, Henson’s wife is ok. Three Boo Boos dead, one ran away. They had MP5s. I dragged one of them over to our side so the cops would think it was a gang hit gone wrong. I can’t find Kathy. Her moby is switched off.” The cops breezed through us, and Rico did a great job of convincing them that we had walked into the middle of a gang war between local drug dealers. He showed them some sort of ID and mentioned diplomatic status, which puzzled me. They quickly changed their demeanour. Twelve hours later, I was released from the police station at Waterloo, and took a cab to St Thomas hospital. I bought a clean T-shirt from a terrified clerk at a shop across the street from the entrance, and went into the main entrance. The reception desk directed me to the critical care unit, and I moved as quickly as I could to it. I asked a fat Filipino nurse on the ward desk where Donna was. She pointed down a corridor, but started to protest something I ignored as I walked down the hallway. The door to Donna’s room was open and her bed was surrounded by a partially open curtain. Tubes of IVs and wires to monitors were connecting her to the machines around her bed. Sitting on a chair was her estranged husband, Brian. He was holding her hand. I paused and watched from the side, out of sight. He whispered something to her, and I saw her slightly nod her head. He gently squeezed her hand, and I saw her squeeze back as a few tears dripped down her face. I turned and walked away.

That is all for now. I hope you enjoyed the sample. If so, please let me know. Thanks.

I was drinking Angolan coffee from a paper cup on a rooftop one hundred and ninety two metres from the taxi rank in front of Luanda’s most popular night club, Palos, on Fredric Engels Street. All streets in this place were named after icons of failed communist regimes or South American dictators. I wondered if Jane Fonda had been a town planner. At 03:27, Paul Doumer came out of the front of the club, swaying back and forth with a hooker under each arm. There was more than enough ambient street light to be able to use the Redfield scope. The rifle, with this setup, would comfortably make 1,200 metre shots to one quarter of a Minute of Angle or MOA. A shot at this distance was almost embarrassingly easy. I settled the rifle into my shoulder, took up the sight picture and dialed down the magnification to six power on the scope to give me the widest field of vision. The internal range finder in the scope confirmed my calculations and the cam in the bullet drop compensator calculated the horizontal line in my scope to the correct position. No ‘hold over’ was required. It was a direct lay. There was no wind that night so the windage calculations were at my original rifle zero. The closer to a target, the easier the shot. But the extraction after the shot was exponentially more difficult.

I shot Paul Doumer between the eyes at 03:34 as the flame of his cigarette lighter illuminated his face perfectly. I knew the maths. The ten gram Nosler hollow point bullet took less than a tenth of a second to hit him at a speed of 2,820 feet per second or 1,922 mph. Hollow point bullets were against the Geneva Convention, but so was Paul Doumer, I reasoned. I also knew the physics. The bullet would have created 3,510 joules of energy focused on a space seven millimetres wide between his eyes. Hydrostatic shock would, at that range, atomize Paul’s brain and blow most of it out of the exit wound at the back of his head.

Years of practice on the ranges at Ft. Benning, Ft. Bragg, and then Canjuers and Ali Sabieh, had taught me the trade. I knew by heart and rote repetition, all of the variables, all of the options and all of the effects. I knew that hollow point bullets refracted at ranges above six-hundred metres. I knew that hydrostatic shock on hyper velocity bullets created such a pressure wave in the vascular systems of mammals that a well placed hit would cause an aneurysm and instant death on anything smaller than a polar bear. The bullet would have had enough energy to travel a fair distance and at an unpredictable trajectory after leaving the back of Paul’s head. It would be impossible to find, and in a town like Luanda spent bullets were not uncommon to find in alleys and on rooftops. I was pretty sure ‘CSI Luanda’ would not be a factor. The sound suppressor on the end of the rifle removed the muzzle blast effect, but the bullet would create a sonic ‘crack’ as it broke the sound barrier. This would be bi-directional but due to the loud music booming from the club, it would be indistinguishable down range. Paul’s carcass dropped away backwards, and due to the drugs and alcohol in the shitheads around him no particular reaction occurred immediately. They just seemed to mill around and hardly noticed Paul on the ground.

The sound suppressor unscrewed from the barrel, and I stripped the barrel and bolt assembly from the stock and stuffed it all in a black sports bag. I exited the vacant building from a side door and dropped the bag in a rubbish skip in the alley behind the hotel restaurant, and I returned to the bar of the Royal Hotel and ordered a beer. As I sipped the warm beer, I wondered how long it took those two hookers with Paul to realize that their client was dead. I further pondered how quickly his wallet and watch would go. The nightclub manager, I expected, would panic at the thought of an important Westerner getting his head emptied in front of his club and he would dispose of the body at sea the next day from one of the fishing boats in the harbour less than a mile away. He would not want to be answering questions to Luanda’s Internal Security Police. Once these factors are ‘Africanized’, normal expectations about criminal investigations become much more favourable to the perpetrator. Other people, however, would look into Paul’s death if only to understand the market forces that may be in play. And that’s why I got paid. I was a market force. Against training and protocols, I left Luanda the same way I came in and returned to Johannesburg. I flew to Dubai the next afternoon. It was Air France. I decided to treat myself to Gallic comforts after a job well done. Once in Dubai, I booked an overnight flight to Singapore to my meeting at Black Horse Asia HQ. A long mid afternoon cab ride to the River View hotel at Robertson’s Quay allowed me to relax. I had been there several times before. The over-staffed reception desk was efficient and quick. I booked a Club room with a view of the river on an upper floor and some liquid refreshment. I paid off the porter, and was impressed that the bottle of rum and the six-packs of Coke and Tiger Beer had been delivered before I got to my room. I poured a triple measure of rum and added some coke. The view from the window was comforting and familiar. The room had that familiar mustiness of forced air-cooling so common throughout South East Asia. I drank half of the glass of rum and headed for the shower. An hour later, I went out. Although I was less susceptible to jet lag than I used to be, I knew I needed to stay awake until 22:00 local time.

China Town was a comfortable fifteen minute walk away. The first part was along the river. I had an early dinner in a small street cafe there. The Tiger Beer always tastes better than it does anywhere else. The dinner entertainment was people watching. Western couples made up most of the show, with occasional groups of gap year students with huge rucksacks. They were distinguishable to nationality mostly by the brand of their rucksacks. MacPacs for the Aussies and Kiwis, Karimorr for Brits and Irish.

China Town was beginning to get crowded and I moved on. I wanted to stay out a little longer in order to reset by body clock and I chose to do that at the Penny Black, a pub on the Boat Quay. The wakeup call dragged me out of a deep sleep. I skipped breakfast and managed five miles on the treadmill in the gym and twenty minutes on the rowing machine. The steam room was not open so I went for a swim. I took a taxi to Black Horse Group and Steve met me the receptionist’s desk. We shook hands and he seemed genuinely glad to see me. It must have been dress down day at Black Horse Group. Both Steve and Henson were wearing polo shirts and jeans. He led me to a small but well appointed conference room. “How long are you town?” he said.“A few days, maybe the week. I’m at the River View.” I said.“A bit of R & R on the Orchard Road, is it?” Henson turned to us from the window and smiled at that.“No, just some down time. I’m fucked and need some recovery time. I might shift over to Bali or Penang and get some winter sun,” I said.“Beth and the kids live in Perth now, not far from the house you have there in Scarborough. She sends her regards. They would love to see you again, and to thank you,” he said, looking me in the eyes. "How’d you figure it out?” I said after a long moment.

He opened a folder which had two newspaper clippings in it. I read them. The first one said:‘A Sydney woman attacked after a traffic incident with a local biker gang.’ It related to Steve’s wife, Beth and how she had been beaten and sexually assaulted by them.The second article related to a murder/suicide involving three members of a biker gang. The article explained that one member allegedly shot two other gang members between the eyes and then shot himself. “Beth said you stopped by the hospital the same day she was admitted. Thirty three hours later the three fucks who did it all have 45 caliber lobotomies. One of them was shot in the side of his head and two of them between the eyes. Your trademark.” I shrugged. “I was in Melbourne on legitimate business and heard about the attack. So I went up to Sydney and stopped by the hospital. I knew she would be worried and scared. I thought I could put her at ease. That’s it. You would have done the same for my Tina. Beth sent flowers to the funeral, which meant a lot to me. You were in Africa somewhere. I knew you’d go nuts and shoot up half the fuckin’ town. That would have fucked her up even more. Fuck off and leave it alone...Legio Patria Nostra.”

“I know. I appreciate it. So does Beth. I’m going down to the Perth office at the end of the week. We would love to have you come down. She knows what you did. She thinks you’re fuckin’ superman.”

“Listen, Fuck-face. Don’t get all sentimental and broke-dick on me or I’ll send you the bill for the ammo. It was a public service. Thank Beth for the invite and tell her I would be delighted but not this time. How the fuck did you pull her in the first place? I always thought she was a hostage.” He smiled and nodded his head at that.

I stood up and shook hands with both of them. “See you around.” “One thing, Beth’s name. It was never mentioned in any of the initial news reports, how’d you find out it was Beth involved?” he said.

I stopped and turned around. I looked him in the eyes and said, “Dave gave me a call. Aussie Thomas, his Ops Chief in Tunisia is from Sydney and his sister works at the hospital. She made sure she was safe and phoned Dave. As soon as I found out, I flew up there and sorted it. You got friends in low places, Steve.” Steve smiled and looked down. “Ok, tell Dave I’m in. I like his ideas and we need to sort out these Russian fucks. I’ll meet him in London after the holidays, and we’ll put things right.”

On Monday I received a courier file at my office. On Tuesday I flew to Johannesburg using the name Walter Muller, with work and travel documents supporting my legend as a petroleum engineer subcontracting to Esso Oil and Gas Angola. Black Horse had very lucrative contracts with several diamond mining interests in Angola for transport and local security. It was a competitive business. Connections seemed to win the day when it came to awarding contracts.

The man responsible for recommending security companies, performing due diligence, and negotiating contract details was Paul Doumer, a fat prick of a Belgian who had no limit to his corruptions. For years, he had taken huge bribes from Black Horse Group in order to set up the security contracts for the diamond industry. He then recommended that the contracts be given to Kraznaya Zsvesdaya and with the stroke of a pen, a multi-million dollar double cross had stripped Black Horse of the business. It was my job to put that right with a ballistic intervention. I was being paid to shoot the bastard. At the airport, I booked an internal flight and phoned an old friend, Andre Watson. Andre was a Black Horse Alumni. After the Legion, he and I had worked together training some people how to shoot pirates off of a cargo ship. He cashed in after a year of that and returned to his huge farm in the Northern Cape region. There, he grew his wine grapes, raised his cattle, and fathered his children. We landed at a dusty airstrip outside Port Nolloth on the North Cape coast. When the door of the twin prop commuter opened, I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the dusty afternoon heat. I walked across the tarmac, towards a car park beside the small building serving as a terminal. “Hoe gann dit, Andre?” He stepped out of his Land Cruiser and grabbed my hand with one of his bear claws. I laughed to myself when I saw the suspension lift up as he got out of his Land Cruiser. He always reminded me of a clown getting out of one of those tiny cars you see in the circus. “Jefferson, you skinny little prick, you’re wasting away. Don’t you know any women who can cook? I barely recognized you as you walked across the tarmac! I’ve phoned Anna and she’s starting up the brai to see if we can save your life.” I smiled and shook my head. For Andy, anything less than his 6’6” and 23 stone, looked small, including me at three inches shorter and six stone lighter. He looked fat and happy and his smile was full on. He introduced me again to Pieter, his oldest son who, at seventeen, was a time lapse picture of him as a young man. Pieter, at 6’3” looked me level in the eye as we shook hands. They both had the look of men who worked outdoors. We got in, Andy driving and Pieter in the back. Pieter handed me and his father each a can of beer. I was pretty sure Andy had it for breakfast. We drove into the car park of a local sports ground and Pieter got out and lifted a large sports bag out of the back. “It was nice to see you again Mr Jefferson, I hope to see you again soon, sir. Dad, I’m staying over at Inga’s tonight. Mum knows. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon after rugby,” he said. Andy nodded to him and watched him enter the club house, then he put the vehicle in gear and we bumped back out onto the road. We headed away from town, and buildings became more and more spaced out. “He seems a good lad, Andy. Another year and he’ll be as big as you.” “Yes, I’m proud of him. He’s a decent rugby player, and the Provincial side is looking at him.” We were quiet for a while and I took in the countryside. The tarmac road gave way to an oiled hard packed road. We slowed accordingly and now raised a dust plume behind us. Andre looked over at me as we drove and said; “I am sorry for your loss, Jeff. Tina was a lovely woman. And little Jonathan, such a tragedy. We didn’t hear of it until after the funeral.” “Thanks, Andy. I got the card you and Anna sent. It was kind of you. Just one of those things. Almost three years ago, now.” “How long do you have?” Andy shouted as we bounced along. “Three day’s prep here, and then final go code from a spotter anytime after that. When I am clear, you will get the call from Geneva confirming the the bank deposit details we spoke of. How is Anna these days?” I said. “She’s as beautiful as ever but lost too much weight after the baby. She’s glad you have finally found time to go hunting with me, and she is looking forward to seeing you again. If you stay more than three weeks, she says she will have you married off and as happy as me.” I couldn’t contain my laugh. He spent the next forty minutes telling me how great this part of the world was and what an idiot I was for not buying a ranch here and living out my days in God’s own kraal. We pulled into the private road to his house, and Anna was on the front porch waiting for us. She had a baby in her arms and daughters on either side of her. Luckily for them, they had taken their mother’s looks. I stepped out of the Land Cruiser and walked slowly up to her. “Jefferson, you look positively Biafran. Give me a kiss before you blow away in the wind. You weigh, what, ninety kilos now?” I laughed, rubbed my stomach and said, “I’m a frail hundred and five kilos, but I know that will go up here.” Her voice was like a favourite song not heard in a few years. She kissed me on the cheek, and rubbed her thumb over the scar on my left cheek. She smelled of soap and wood smoke and she looked great. She introduced me to Alice and Nellie again, teenagers now. I wasn’t sure they remembered me. The baby in her arms was Jost who looked like his father even at a year old. Dinner was brai and beer. This close to the coast, prawns were also there in absurd size and quantity. The conversation was just as large. Later, Anna caught me watching the December summer sunset and expressed her condolences. I patted her hand and nodded. “You should find someone...or let someone find you. A man should have a wife and you have been too long alone now,” she said. I grinned at her and said, “I haven’t exactly been alone these years, Anna.” She bumped my hip with her hip, gave me a kind but withering look, and handed me another beer. That night, I slept better than I had in two years. Dreamless, deep blue sleep. I woke up early but everyone was already up. “Six Thirty?” Andre boomed, “You on bloody holiday or a hunting trip?” He smiled at me. We headed out after breakfast. The range work went well. I would be using an oldie but a goodie. Andre had found a mint condition Steyr model 69, 308 caliber. He had fitted out a 6x18 Redfield scope with a bullet drop compensator and an internal range finder. Andy had outdone himself. A ten year old kid could make the shot with this rig. I checked it out and whistled softly as I test the trigger pulls. Both the first trigger and the set trigger were stiff with no play so I wouldn’t have to rework them. “Nice weapon, Andy. You always did know your trade.” “What are your work ups? Estimated range? Elevations and wind? Let’s get to work,” he said. When it came to weapons, Andre was all business. We went through my probable set ups for the Luanda shoot. Everything. I shot fifty rounds or more from every variable in the scenario. I was ready.

The view from my office was not spectacular. I rented a small place in a business centre just off exit 16 on the M4 which supplied a receptionist and provided rudimentary business services as part of the rent. I looked at several letters asking me to tender for engineering work on projects in London and Cardiff. None of these ever provided much work but kept my name moving around in business circles and helped support my cover. The few jobs I did take were as a subcontractor to larger engineering firms. I made a point of visibly living close to my visible income. I read the mail, deleted two-hundred billion junk emails and looked at the local newspaper. I was bored after 45 minutes. The day’s achievement was a personal best on solitaire on my laptop. I gave up and went to the gym. I did two miles on the treadmill before giving up on that, too. I showered after some steam and a swim, and headed home. The voicemail light was blinking on my phone when I got in. Donna had called and left a message for me to call her at home this evening. I checked my emails again and found a message I knew to be from Dave, requesting that I meet him in London the next afternoon. I replied that I would. I phoned Donna just after seven that evening. She answered and must have recognized the number. “Jefferson, how nice to hear from you. That’s twice in six weeks. We’re practically a couple now,” she said, a slight sarcastic tone in her voice. “Hi Donna, You sound well. It’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been working away and comms were shit,” I replied. “Oh I know comms are shit with you. I know almost nothing else about your work, but I know your comms “How about a night out in London tomorrow? I have to meet some clients in the afternoon then we can have some dinner and maybe see a show.” “I know how this works. It will be dinner and drinks and then sex. The dinner had better be better than the sex,” she said, her voice lightening a shade. “How could it be?” I replied smiling at the tone of her voice. “If dinner is anything better than Burger King, the dinner will be better than the sex,” she said, while laughing. “If I remember, you had no complaints last time. I’ll book a room and sort train times and call you later with them later,” I said. “Please, please, please, not some rotten shag pit near the airport again or some crime scene south of the river...please, please, please!” “Ok, ok. How about Club Quarters at Gracechurch and dinner at the Blackhouse at Smithfield?” I offered. “Sounds great. You could have had me for the Travel Lodge and a Brick Lane curry. You’re so easy when you’re horny,” she laughed again and hung up. My train arrived at London’s Paddington Station at 11:06. I walked along the platform and then out along the taxi rank at the bottom of platform 8. I met her at the Sawyers Arms, a small pub just across from Paddington Station, and down a side street. She was sat at the bar drinking a Perrier next to a guy in a suit. He seemed to be admiring her chest, which was not a bad way to spend the day. She was wearing knee length boots, jeans and a white wool fisherman’s jumper. Her leather trench coat lay draped over the back of her chair. She still wore her fur hat. Her normally blonde hair had a frosted effect to it and it seemed to blossom out from under the hat. Next to her was a suitcase that was big enough to need an HGV license to move it. I smiled as I watched her. She was totally politically incorrect when it came to fashion. She was a life member of Greenpeace yet she was wearing fur and leather without the slightest guilt or awareness of the irony. I once thought she was naive or unaware but she has proved to be the most self aware person I know. She didn’t notice me until I was almost beside her. She jumped a bit and squeaked a small “Oh” when she turned and recognized me. Her first reaction in her surprise had been a smile, not just her mouth but her eyes too. I liked that. We kissed and she lingered with her arms around my neck searching for something in my face. She moved her hand and rubbed the old scar on my left cheek with her thumb. I watched her eyes as she searched my face. She smelled expensive and nice. “Sun burn, where have you been?” she said, not as a question but more to herself. Her hands both moved down and rested on my chest. “Warm. You are always so warm,” she said, as if reminding herself of things she already knew. “What are you doing way out there, building Pyramids?” she asked. “Not exactly, just a bit of trouble-shooting. What’s with the packing crate?” I said, pointing to her suitcase. “My things, of course. A night out in London is not something to pack lightly for, in and out of bed,” she said, laughing as her eyes lit up. “What’s in yours?” “A gun and some hand grenades. Let’s go, before I lose my nerve,” I said, smiling at her smile. “You always joke about everything,” she laughed and dragged her case along on its wheels towards the pub door nearest the tube station entrance. Two hours later, she was in the shower and I was lying on the hotel bed contemplating a heart attack when my phone message tone went off indicating an email. “Globe Public House, Moorgate 15:00”. I stuck my head in the bathroom and shouted at the cloud of steam, “Going out to see some people. I’ll be back in an hour.” She opened the shower door and said, “Your loss, sailor,” and struck a model’s pose with her hands on her hips. I met Rico and Dave at a tall table in the Globe Free House. Rico was having a Mojito but without alcohol. Dave was drinking a single malt, no ice. I sat down and nodded to them. I said to Rico, “a Mojito, in an East London boozer? How did you get them to make one?” He smiled at me as his continuous room scan swept past me. I took in his smile and malevolent presence and said, “I withdraw the question.” “Too bad on missing Njabo in Africa. Did you get paid for your time?” Dave said, in speculation. I smiled at him and took a sip of cider. It was Aspall, a good bar cider, but a bit too sweet. I resumed my smile as I set the glass down. “Ok, ok...” Steve replied to my offer of a deal. I think he hit back at KZ in Sierra Leone. We need to arrange a meeting to sort this out before things get too messy. I wished he had waited before moving against KZ.” “Dave, you know what he’s like. He thinks they’re coming after his business,” I said. “Either of you guys would react the same way to that. It’s how this business works. You scare off your competition or take them out.” Rico was still scanning, and I noticed him reverse his scan twice and focus on two guys sat at a table at the end of the bar. “Thirty grand to get the message to him and set up the meeting, Work out the details. You’re about the only guy still alive that we both know. He’ll listen to you,” he said. “Not the most comforting thought, is it Dave? Ok, same details as last time for payment. I’ll make my arrangements and see what I can do. You’re buying the attempt here, not the result,” I replied. Rico interrupted without looking at me, “Jefferson, those two Russian fucks at the corner table across the room, they friends of yours?” I resisted the urge to look over, but caught their reflection from a window. “No. How do you know they’re Russians?” I asked. “Stoly shots on a Thursday afternoon. Lunch crowd is over. Business suits but no ties. Body builder looks but going to fat. They are either Dutch or Russian. And they have an interest in either you or us,” Rico said. “You could always walk up and shoot one of them and see what language comes out of the other one. I’ve seen you do it before,” I said. “Thought of that. It’s my Plan ‘B’. You leave and then we will. I’ll have Roy outside follow them and see who they pick up,” he said. “Ok, let me know what you find out,” I said. “Likewise, Jefferson. And don’t just leave them in a skip or in an alley like Marseilles if they run at you. It would be nice to find out about it without reading it in the Evening Standard,” Rico said, still scanning the room. “I never figured you for a Standard reader, Rico. I had you as more of a Machineguns Monthly subscriber,” I said, as I finished my pint. “He never misses an issue. I like Rico’s plan ‘B’,” Dave said looking over in the general direction of the Russians. “Quelle surprise, Dave,” I said, and I walked out of the bar, and headed east along London Wall. I figured that Dave, Rico and Roy would be giving the two Russians a busy and interesting afternoon. But I had that funny feeling again that something was going very wrong. I returned to the room at 4:20, after taking a stroll around the City, including two tube journeys and a cab into Tower Hamlets. I wasn’t being followed. Donna had gone out. She left a note: ‘Dearest Bear, I’m going shopping. Meet me at the bar in the Ledenhall Market at 4:30. Bring money... Lust, Dee.’ I took a tin of Tiger Beer from the mini-bar fridge, opened it and drank while I changed clothes. No tail on me after I left the meeting with Dave meant either the Russians lacked manpower, and the two guys from the bar were alone, or Dave was the target of their interest. As they had now acquired Dave’s attentions, I didn’t expect to see them again. The problem with Dave was that he had a bit of a temper and tended to kill people who annoyed him before first asking them about their motives. But so did I. There are four different bars and pubs in Ledenhall Market and several pubs adjoining it. I tried the New Moon at the Gracechurch Street entrance. I found her there at a tall table drinking a glass of wine. The table next to her had four suits suiting at it and they had all arranged their chairs so they could look at her. I thought about shooting them but decided to wait until after dinner before murdering anyone. I kissed her and she kissed back. She had changed scents. Something cinnamon mixed with lavender and...sex. She looked even better than she had this morning. She chose not to show her legs tonight, and she wore a long grey skirt, a different pair of boots, and a white button shirt. It looked great on her. but I thought it would look even better on the floor. My first reaction was to think that we should skip the dinner. “Not showing any leg tonight?” I said gesturing to her skirt. “Maybe later. Have you forgotten what they look like?” she smiled. “No, but always up for another look. My memory isn’t what it was once, Doris,” I teased. “I’m Donna, asshole.” “Of course you are.” An hour later we had dumped her last minute shopping in the room, not had sex, made our way over to Smolensky’s Bar in Canary Wharf and not had sex. Smo’s was crowded and the atmosphere was ‘Pretentious’. I knew it would be full of people I would want to knock out but I also knew she loved it. I parked her near a tall table already occupied and headed for the bar. The bar staff were quick. She had a G&T and I had a pint of cider. I was pretty sure the guy serving me had never sold one before. I returned to her and some guy was chatting her up. I handed her the G & T and said to the guy, “How long a wait for a table? We didn’t make a reservation.” Donna blurted out a laugh and then covered her mouth with her hand. I could see amusement in her eyes. The guy looked at me, opened and closed his mouth several times, and departed. “That was unkind,” she said, “He was only chatting.” “Fuck ’em,” I replied, as I lifted my pint to my mouth. We chatted a while and went outside on the terrace where there was more room. She pulled out her cigarettes and lit one and blew the smoke away from me. “Thought you quit.” “I did. The divorce is stressing me out. I bought these this afternoon.” “He’s being difficult?” I asked, looking out at a gull sitting on the water of the Middle Dock. “Worse, he wants to see me,” she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “You’re not keen, I take it,” I said, adding nothing. “God no! He was a bully and a control freak, I had no freedom.” “Not like us then...” I said. “That’s the kicker. I love what we have. We see each other, we care about each other, but we live our own lives,” she said, putting out her cigarette. “But you want more...” She took a sip of her drink and set it on the tall table next to us, and put her arms around me. “I want more...but I know that would ruin what I love about us.” I was supposed to say something here but it didn’t come out. The feelings were there but some dead-man switch inside me disengaged, and I stayed silent. This was a minefield and I reverted to training. ‘First, do nothing, observe and evaluate. Then extract if possible or locate and disable or make safe’. She smiled at me, a slight shake of her head and an even slighter glisten in her eyes. “My life is shit. And it will continue to be shit. You are one of the best things in it, but I don’t want to share shit with you. Can you follow that?” “Maybe we should go back to what we do best, enjoy our time together, and screw like bunnies,” she said, as she finished her drink and handed me the glass. She was smiling to herself when I returned with another. “Any trouble getting served?” she said. “None, bar was crowded but I got lucky,” I said. She blurted out a laugh and said, “I watched you. You terrify people. They fell over themselves to get out of your way and you don’t notice it. You have an aura of menace around you.” “Bullshit,” I said after contemplating her words. “It’s rum!” she said after tasting her drink. “A double measure. I thought you could use a change of pace.” She drank down half of it while keeping her eyes on me, and then set it down. She pushed into me, her fur hat was under my chin and she wrapped her arms around me inside my jacket. For a moment, I thought she would find the pistol in the small of my back. “I can year your heart,” she said, her ear on my chest. “Good to know it still works,” I said. Later, dinner was excellent, the sex was better.

Bujumbura is the capital of Burundi. And all of the good which is Burundi can be found focused in Bujumbura, if you look very, very hard for it. I didn’t find any. My flight to Nairobi and then the border crossing into Burundi overland from Tanzania had been uneventful. The usual absurdities at the border, including the customs inspector leafing through my passport while holding it upside down as he waited to be bribed, went some ways to helping me re-acclimatise to Africa. As is the usual, Black Horse would not know the specifics of how I would accomplish the task, and they would operate to the pre agreed protocols we had contracted for. The Economics First Minister of Burundi was Michael Njabo. He was having a bad day. I knew that before he did. He needed to arrive at the meeting with the Chinese trade delegation and discuss the only thing that mattered to him, money, and he was running late. I watched from a cafe across the street as Steve’s Black Horse Group security guys struggled with Njabo’s driver to get his armoured limo started. As I had planned for, the Black Horse guys brought up the second minister’s car as a replacement and Njabo and his personal aides got in after screaming at the hapless African drivers. The commandeered lesser replacement limo screamed off with Njabo and his entourage following a Black Horse Range Rover security detail. One of Steve’s team chiefs, Dan Henson, as arranged, tweaked something in the engine compartment in the disabled primary limo and it suddenly started. Henson hustled Buka, the second minister, and his aides into it and closed the door. Buka was a fat, arrogant bully who had no qualifications for his role except the tribal connections of his uncle. There was no contracted security for the second minister. As an Assistant Economics Minister, he rated only a traffic cop on an old Suzuki motorbike as an escort. The car screeched out of the car park and onto the road and the cop, after stalling his bike once, raced off after him with the siren blaring and one blue light flashing lamely. I pulled out a small Chinese made copy of a Motorola walkie-talkie transmitter from my rucksack. My cover here as a surveyor would explain having a commercial radio transmitter especially considering how unreliable local West African phone networks are. I turned it on, set it to channel 12, and pressed the send button. Two thousand metres away, the signal was picked up by a receiver and a switch on a solenoid initiated and sent a 1.1 volt charge to an Atlas electrical blasting cap. This, in turn, detonated the 500 grams of Chinese made Semtex located where I had placed it the night before, above the rear trans-axle. The trans-axle created a tamping effect and forced a large percentage of the explosion up and into the vehicle. The limo’s armour plating would actually work against the occupants rather than protecting them as it would briefly contain the blast inside the vehicle. I finished my coffee as the boom echoed through the streets and a small mushroom cloud formed in the warm dusty air above the city. I walked back to my hotel ignoring the street vendors offering everything from fake Rolexes to organ transplants. In front of my hotel I saw two army vehicles collide with an ambulance as they rushed to the scene. The army captain was waving a pistol around but his sunglasses where so dark that I wasn’t sure he could see anything well enough to shoot at. In the hotel bar, the barman set down a glass of Carlsberg, and I was reminded of the famous bar scene in Ice Cold in Alex as I watched through the window as soldiers pushed the broken ambulance out of the way and then screamed off. I lifted the beer and muttered in salute to John Mills: ‘Worth waiting for’. The next day, I had coffee at the same cafe. I had been going there all week. If I had bailed after the hit, it may have drawn the notice of even the most inept investigator or intelligence officer. And there were plenty of those around. The coffee was wonderful. So was the lead article in the morning newspaper. Buka, his three aids and their driver were vaporized by the force of the explosion. The police escort was blown off his bike and broke his hip in the fall. His bike crashed into a market stall which caused the financial ruin of the stall owner who took his frustrations out on several of his wives that afternoon and was now under arrest. Njabo named his brother-in-law as the new second Minister of Economics even before the flames of Buka’s car were put out. I smiled to myself on my gift to humanity and the resulting payday. I checked out of my hotel as scheduled, ignored my pre-booked Air Burundi flight to Nairobi and hitched a ride to Luanda in an ancient Russian Antonov 22 transport aircraft which ran a scheduled cargo service across central Africa. I slept on a nylon aircraft seat next to a crate marked ‘Machine Parts’ in Cyrillic letters which looked suspiciously like the crates used to transport RPGs. Unlike recent BA flights, I didn’t get seduced by the flight attendant, who was also the flight engineer and called Marko. I did get a warm bottle of Castle beer, though. From there, I flew to Marrakech on TAP, the Portuguese national carrier, and as far as I could tell, there were no anti-tank rockets on board that flight. The old military axioms of ‘Do unto others and move out of the area,’ and ‘never go out the same door you came in,’ were observed. I checked my bank account and was pleased but not surprised to see a deposit in the expected amount had been made from a bank in Belgium. Later that day, an email from Black Horse Group forwarded to me by a proxy email account invited me to a meeting in Marrakech. Steve was sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside of a coffee house. I noticed two of his people and probably another one who I didn’t know, across the street. Steve stood up and offered his hand as I approached his table. He looked well. His skin tone was burned-in rather than Club Med and he had that odd, indescribable heightened sense of animation and self confidence that elite soldiers seem to give off to each other. “That was a nice job on Buka. Just the thing we needed to prompt that useless prick Njabo to sign off on our security upgrade. He thinks someone’s after his fat ass and the bomb was meant for him,” he said. “Glad you’re pleased. Any comebacks?” “No, none. Buka wasn’t mourned and several rebel factions are tripping over themselves to take credit for the public service of taking him out,” he said. “Sounds like the right guy was blown up,” I said. “There aren’t any wrong guys to blow up, Jeff.” “How do you know it wasn’t one of the opposition groups who did the job?” I asked while looking around the street. “Dan Henson spotted you two days before the event at a cafe across the street,” Steve grinned. “He set up some night vision recording gear on the vehicles but we didn’t see you deliver the rig to the car. I can’t believe the cameras missed something as big as you. Besides that, the boo boos who are trying to take the credit for the bombing are dumb as fuck, and couldn’t blow up a balloon let alone a car.” “Glad you’re pleased. I see your two usual gunboats travelled up with you. You guys here on other business or a corporate fun day in Marrakesh? ” I asked. “Alan and Tony. We’re off to Germany to look at some kit we may be interested in. Tony used similar kit when he was at Taunton with 40 Commando. Besides, Alan and Tony are fun guys,” he said, smiling. “They look it. Tony was 40 Commando? Never knew that. It explains his glazed look. Just can’t get the help these days, Steve,” I smiled back. “Who’s the third guy on over-watch, next to the news stand across the street, cheap Ray-ban knockoffs?” Steve leaned back and smiled, nodding to himself. “Good spot. I didn’t think you’d clock him. Once recon, always recon.” “Just like you, brother. Legio Patria Nostra,” I said as I stood up. I pointed to the briefcase I had set down next to my chair and said, “Speaking of which, a message from Dave, he sends his regards. I checked it for a bomb, but I know you’ll check it again. Bombs are a chronic problem in Africa these days, I hear.” Within the hour, I had a response from Steve to send back to Dave on cooperating in central Africa. He was willing to talk. I also had another job, this time working again for Steve’s Black Horse division but in Sierra Leone. I was tired of Africa and bored with flights. Once more, I boarded a scheduled cargo aircraft, this time for Sierra Leone where KZ was getting on with their new security project with the Ministry of Mineral Resources. KZ was there on a UN mandate to attempt to upgrade the Ministry’s own security team which consisted of a group of murdering bullies. Local murdering bullies. Steve wanted to replace KZ’s local murdering bullies with his own Black Horse local murdering bullies. I bought five Russian F1 hand grenades in a bar and fitted one out with a zero time delay booby trap fuse. It fit nicely under the accelerator pedal of a KZ owned Range Rover and exploded when a driver stepped on it and dislodged the safety spoon. The blast destroyed the Range Rover, killed the driver and three local security thugs. If they had survived, I would have recommended a booby trap awareness course for them, at a very reasonable price. Steve’s reaction to KZ creeping in on his business was going to get their attention. The profile Dave had prepared for him showed him exactly how much of his trouble was KZ inspired and he was hitting back. Business was booming. I flew back to Marrakech, changed to a proper aircraft and was asleep when we landed at Heathrow. I cleared customs and passport control with the usual indignities. I felt out of place as I was one of only a few passengers who weren’t trying to smuggle a donkey or a crate full of ducks through customs. England was cold, even for early December. The rental car was an upgrade and no extra cost. I got home in two hours. After a long shower, I drank a beer while watching Sky News. The recorded rugby matches would have to wait. I picked up the phone, dialled Donna’s number and hung up after it switched to voice mail. Donna and I probably deserved each other. Neither of us was ever around when the other needed them. I took two aspirin and washed it down with the last of my beer and went to bed. Even killers got headaches, I reasoned.

Author

Bio: British age 74 (young) retired and living in Thailand. Profession, Charity Auditor working in some 40 countries over the last ten years before retiring. Familiar with writing reports to professional standard. Sense of humour, reserved, realist and down to earth. Enjoy writing with a passion for the unusual.Genre: Fiction crime Email: stephenterry747@hotmail.comPhone: 0066823250835 Thailand